


To Have the World Collapse (Right Beneath Your Feet)

by WritingMage



Series: The Upending of Draco Malfoy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-19 05:07:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7346311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingMage/pseuds/WritingMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There in the street a girl- no, a woman now- smiles and chats in loud, confident tones. Something about books and poetry and love.</p><p>And Draco is befuddled and almost completely still as he blatantly stares at the ghost of his past, and for a moment, Draco cannot decide whether to laugh or curse. There, across from him, stands the golden girl of Gryffindor, and instead of merely stuffing her nose in a book or looking cross, Granger is talking and laughing and being a Muggle.</p><p>It is decidedly strange, Draco decides, to see Hermione Granger without a wand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Have the World Collapse (Right Beneath Your Feet)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, and in truth, I only own the interpretation of a certain narrator and some characters and perhaps bits and pieces of the nonexistent plot. Though I must admit, the idea for one twist came from another fan fiction though I can't actually recall its name at the moment.

 

The day is bright with sunshine when Draco wakes, and that somehow makes the day all the worse for it. But, if nothing else, Draco is a boy, _and sometimes a man_ , of routine. So he simply pulls away the bed covers, changes into his grey suit, and drinks the tea his mother gave him for Christmas. When the clock strikes eight, Draco is already walking out the door and making way though the crowded streets of Muggle London, as he has had to for the past five years.

 

At precisely eight thirty, Draco is stepping into the doors of Aram Berlyn Gardner, and in three more minutes, he has settled into his cubicle and begun to leaf through papers and type in numbers. The day becomes an identical blur to yesterday.

 

The same phone calls, the same numbers, the same voices…

 

_No, Mrs. Thursley, we cannot handle your family expenses. We only advise._

_No, Mr. Hendrickson, we do not advise for you to invest your stock there._

_Yes, Mrs. Rosen, we, as your accounting firm do give you a week’s notice before tax day. Good day._

The day is as the days always are, and at 12 o’clock sharp, Draco walks peacefully through busy streets, content with his anonymity in the sea of London faces. He goes to his favorite café, and before Draco can even open his mouth to order, the girl at the register smiles at him and says that his black tea and raspberry scone will be done in a moment. Then, Draco takes his customary seat along the café window and pretends to read the London Times.

 

But suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he sees something that completely disrupts the deliberate monotony that Draco has built for himself.

 

There in the street a girl- no, a woman now- smiles and chats in loud, confident tones. Something about books and poetry and love.

 

“It’s ridiculous, Alex,” she says as she bursts into his haven. “Humbert does not love Lolita. He is merely obsessed.” And in between tidbits of fascinating conversation (really, only fascinating because Draco has never seen Hermione Granger talk quite so much and not be angry), Hermione orders a small cup of coffee.

 

“Yes, black and two sugars, please.”

 

And Draco is befuddled and almost completely still as he blatantly stares at the ghost of his past, and for a moment, Draco cannot decide whether to laugh or curse. There, across from him, stands the golden girl of Gryffindor, and instead of merely stuffing her nose in a book or looking cross, Granger is talking and laughing and being a Muggle.

 

It is decidedly strange, Draco decides, to see Hermione Granger without a wand.

 

And when Granger looks towards him with inquisitive eyes, Draco feels an ache in his chest, because: Hermione Granger is looking at him curiously, and there is no recognition in her eyes, no hate. There isn’t even a vicious hiss of “What are you doing here, Malfoy?” And even worse, the Gryffindor’s hair has been tamed into long rivulets of mousy brown. That last observation is what truly draws Draco into a sense of nostalgia, and his hand twitches.

 

For a moment, Draco imagines a possibility:

 

He will pull out his wand, and in remembrance of his school-day bullying, will send a light zap of his wand towards Granger. Her hair will poof up into an untamable bushel once again, and as he Apparates out of the café, Granger will say something about hoping to never see him again until the next mandatory ball.

 

But that of course is an impossibility because of two things: Draco Lucius Malfoy does not have his wand, and Hermione Granger does not have her memories. For a moment, as he stares up to Granger, Draco feels the rise of unbidden anger.

 

 _How dare she change her hair_. The thought swirls suddenly into Draco’s thoughts. _How dare she also change._

 

Of all of them, Granger should still be as annoying and hard-heading as she once was, but instead, time had also changed her and molded her into a completely new person.

 

Disgust swells within him, and Draco brusquely grabs his scone, tea, and newspaper before briskly walking back to his cubicle. And, he knows, with complete certainty how incredibly ridiculous it is to attach so much to hair, but Draco also knows that it is such a rude awakening to see something so constant change right beneath his nose.

 

He had assumed in an offhand way that though the world collapsed right out from under him that all others would remain the same. That idea had sustained him whenever he thought to remember the wizarding world.

 

How foolish to think that a girl’s change of hair can mean so much.

 

Looking up to the ceiling, Draco reminds himself of how he came to rest in a cramped office cubicle in a cramped city of Muggles who he was once taught to despise. He remembers the trials and his brief stint in Azkaban. He also remembers his dreadful shock on his sentencing day.

 

_You have abused magic in the grossest of ways; therefore, what better punishment than to rid you of magic completely._

Draco also remembers his last day in the Malfoy Mansion, and the owl he receives a few hours before his banishment.

 

_Draco,_

_The Ministry has gone mad! They even ruled to Obliviate all Mudbloods. Something about them being the cause for the war in the first place. Potter and the Weasles won’t stand for this, and if they manage to overturn this dictate, the Ministry’s ridiculous ruling for your case will follow suit._

_-Pansy_

Except, neither Ministry ruling was overruled, and Draco had to accept his banishment. Had to accept the world collapsing underneath his feet and accept the whirlwind of change.  Draco had never truly done will with change, and so he had thrown himself into his Muggle job and assumed that the rest of the world would be as it always was.

 

Perhaps, Draco wonders, perhaps it would be best to forget about the past and no longer dwell within the predictable to shed his Slithering skin, so to speak. To be brave and embrace the change. Should he see Granger again, Draco should introduce himself and turn a new leaf, befriend his once enemy.

 

However, the Sorting Hat had never debated whether Draco Lucius Malfoy should be sorted between Slithering and Gryffindor. And Draco is not a whit brave or daring, and neither is Draco Lucius Malfoy one to defy expectation. Instead he preferrs to dwell within the realm of the known and the comfortable.

 

This is what settles his debate. Should he ever again see Granger, or any other Muggle-born, he shall simply ignore them blithely. After all, what business does he, a convicted follower of Voldemort, have with a purported savior of wizarding and muggle kind?

 

As Draco works himself out of his tizzy, he hears a knock on his cubicle.

 

“Excuse me,” Granger enters with his suit jacket in hand, “You left this in the café down the street.”

 

And for once Draco rethinks his sound strategy of escape.


	2. And When You Can't Quite Seem to Let It Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, and in truth, I only own the interpretation of a certain narrator and characters and perhaps bits and pieces of the nonexistent plot. Though I must admit, the idea for one twist came from another fan fiction though I can't actually recall its name at the moment.

 

When Granger leaves his office, Draco thanks her with a thin smile, the polite smile that his mother taught him when he was nine and ignorant to the pretense of affability.  Granger stares at him a moment before introducing herself.

 

“I’m Hermione,” she says. “Though everyone just calls me Jean.”

 

“I”, Draco says with the slightest of eyebrow raises, “am too busy for a poor college student.”

 

Twin dashes of angry red strike across her cheeks, and for a moment, Draco pretends that they are still in school. There’s a slight rush in his veins, the same rush he used to have whenever he’d manage to rile the Gryffindor princess. As Granger shouts an insult or two, Draco relishes in the feeling.

 

“Snake,” Granger says. “No wonder you were sitting alone.”

 

For a moment, her eyes widen, and she stares once again at Draco but says nothing. Her face is twisted with a frown, and the look on her face forewarns Draco that this once-witch is perhaps not as Obliviated as she would seem. She did call him snake, after all. But, it is not possible to not be completely Obliviated. It is impossible. Completely impossible. Completely and utterly. So Draco merely blinks once before giving a slight raise to his eyebrows and flicking his hand towards the open door like he would when his house elf finished giving him tea.

 

Her eyes narrow immediately, and there is a choked sound of irritation at the back of her throat. "Insufferable," she mutters. "I'm not a dog or a servant." Pulling her bag, Granger throws his jacket into his face, managing a good hit, especially considering the thick Charles Dickens Tome wrapped inside it. Though Granger hesitates and lingers outside the cubicle opening for a good thirty seconds, she ultimately leaves. Her walk is slow and gives Draco a moment to regain his equilibrium.

 

How dare she, muggle-born and now Oblivated, strike him? Really, she should be falling over herself to apologize. Honestly, he could press charges for assault... Probably. Sneering, Draco charges into the break room and rummages through the icebox. All the while, he silently curses Granger, especially when his boss Mrs. Margaret waltzes in and asks, "Draco dear, you look _quite_ disheveled today; perhaps it would be best if you went home early? You know how our clients prefer a..." Here, she pauses uncomfortably, pursing her hideously slate grey lips, "a tidier look."

 

If he didn't need this job as much as he does, Draco would certainly point out that in all of his glorious good looks and dishevelment he still looks much better than her. Because, whatever the wizarding world might say, Draco knows with certainty that he is quite handsome, Bryonic even if it weren't for his blonde hair. With the lightest of sneers, Draco nods. "Of course, Mrs. Margaret. Have a good day," he says, "and you look positively lively today. Grey suits you."

 

Slowly, with dignity, Draco exits the room, and with all of the taught-elegance of his youth, he makes his way to his small home. Hopefully his mother will be able to visit, and get rid of the terrible bruise at the right corner of his lip. He cannot, after all, be going about like this. It is only right before he falls to sleep that he realizes just how different this new, muggle Granger is compared to the prim, proper, right- annoying witch from Hogwarts. Instead of black robes or long sleeves, this new Granger wears a pair of tight black pants and a shirt of some muggle band. Her jacket has seen better days but is equally college-like.

 

For a moment, Draco wonders what has become of his once-nemesis in five years. This new Hermione Granger does not look like how he would have imagined Granger would look as either a witch or a muggle. She is neither prim nor particularly proper, and her bag is not filled to the brim with ancient texts or even a regular book. Perhaps being among her own people had made her lose whatever refinement she had gained through the wizarding community. Of course, Granger had never truly been refined, Draco sneers. Even then, she had had all the social grace of a Blast-Ended Skrewt. In the last few moments before sleep, Draco spares a thought or two more on the girl before sleeping. Because as tragic as a muggle Hermione Granger is, Draco also needs sleep.

 

Unsurprisingly, the sun is equally as bright as it was the day before, and Draco once again pulls away the bed covers, changes into his grey suit, and drinks the tea his mother gave him for Christmas. When the clock strikes eight, Draco walks out the door and into the crowded streets of Muggle London.

 

As he walks, he spares a thought on the Gryffindor before deciding that whatever the case, Granger’s life and situation are none of his business and never have been. Therefore, the logical thing to do is to simply let the matter lie and forget, but if Draco must think of Granger from time to time, he supposes that he can allow himself to wonder occasionally about Granger. When he finishes wondering about her, he will content himself with the thought that all must be well. Granger lives in London after all, and she should have a good life. And in all probability, they will never cross paths again. Which is good. London largeness is an unexpected advantage, and statistically speaking, is less than ten percent. Despite his best intentions, Draco finds himself once-again meeting the Once-Gryffindor.

 

Their second meeting consists of a cat’s hiss and a scratch upon his cheek. At the time, Draco is certain that this should be enough to mortify Granger out of ever seeking his presence again, as she seems wont to do. (Not that Draco truly has any proof that Granger is seeking him out, but what Draco does know is that Granger has become a regular at the café that _he_ frequents.  Draco also knows for a fact that whenever Granger is in the café, she seems to stare at him for inordinate amounts of time. But that doesn’t prove anything for certain. After all, maybe she loves all the black coffee with two sugars she always makes sure to order).

 

It is a muggy day with the grey promise of rain in the sky, and as he does every Saturday, Draco sits in a pew in St. Bartholomew’s Church. There he sits precisely a half-hour studying fellow church-goers a majority of which are tourists, but mostly Draco admires the architecture and tries to remind himself of Hogwarts and the wizarding world once more. Yet, Draco knows with inexplicable certainty that no place will ever truly look or feel like Hogwarts, but it is nice to pretend from time to time on Saturday mornings.

 

Then, as is routine, Draco takes a brief walk in some park whose name he’s never attempted to remember. When he walks by a certain bench, there is an unsettling hiss to Draco’s right.

 

A certain orange half-Kneazal.

 

It takes another moment for Draco to see a figure, probably Granger, running towards them, and for a moment, Draco sees Granger slip as she barrels towards them. When Draco pulls away the half-Kneazal away from catastrophe, the little creature gives a nasty hiss.

 

When Granger finally does manage to arrive, there is a hint of blood upon the cat’s claws, and Draco is hissing a light curse beneath his breathe. “Oh, I’m sorry!” The words are gasped, and there is a slight blush on Granger’s cheeks. It is a pleasant blush, Draco decides, like pink rose petals. In the five years since he last saw Granger, he sees how the childishness of her face has melted away to reveal a truly pretty face, decidedly different from the woman-child of their would-be seventh year. If she could still remember him, how much would Granger say that he had changed? He looks similar, though his muscles have bulked slightly, and his hair is an inch or two longer. There isn’t much that’s different. He is still charming and handsome, narcisscus-like if all the looks he gets are any indication.  Draco blinks, and once again, studies the Once-Gryffindor.

 

“It is nothing,” he says and goes to make off on his way when a hand clutches at his arm.

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” she says, “It isn’t proper, you know, for a respectable young lady like myself to injure an equally respectable man and not offer recompense. So you _must_ let me pay recompense.” She smiles broadly, pleasantly, but her words are a tad too much like her overly prim and proper know-it-all self from Hogwarts.

 

It seems that not even an Obliviate can take all of Granger’s annoyances away. This thought eases the frown twisting at the edge of his thin lips. “Perhaps another day,” Draco says blithely, before wiping at his cheek one last time and continuing, “I have appointment that I can’t miss.”

 

“Oh.” Disappointment shines in her eyes, and like a popped balloon, she deflates pitifully. “Well, I’ll give you my card, in any case. We can meet up sometime for drinks.”

 

 _A drinking, Muggle Granger_ , Draco thinks incredulously. How the mighty Gryffindor fell: From the Brightest Witch of their age to muggle, and from muggle to _this_. His eyebrow follows suit and raises ever so slightly.

 

“Or coffee,” Granger adds hastily.

 

“Perhaps,” Draco says, accepting the card. He walks hastily away, visits the doctor to make sure he has not contracted some sort of disease on his cheek, and throws the card Granger gave him into a little red address book a co-worker gave him during a Secret Santa a couple of years back. (In other circumstances, Draco is certain that he would have promptly thrown the card away or added it into his chimney, but even as Draco sets the card over the licking flames of his chimney, his hand can’t quite seem to let it go).

 

Nevertheless, Draco is determined to never see Granger again. But then, of course, he does meet her again, and in the process, accidentally takes up Granger on her offer. Of course, Draco hadn’t meant to, but what else could he have done?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Posting Date: August 11, 2016
> 
> Prompt: N/A
> 
> Word Count: 1720
> 
> Note: This was an experiment. One that I believe came up just a tad above awful and completely incorrect character interpretation. Nevertheless, I would like feedback on how I wrote Draco and Hermione. I did borrow an idea in this chapter. Draco calling himself Byronic if not for his blondness wasn't my idea at all, but it was from some fanfic that I don't remember anymore. Anyways, I've had this chapter ready for about 2 months, but I keep not being satisfied with it, and my personal life and art have been eating up my time, so are personal projects and technical problems with my dear laptop. If you want to see what I'm up to in art feel free to check out my deviantart account. (There's a URL in my profile). In any case, here it is. :)  
> ***I have the dreadful habit of writing for fandoms I know nothing about. Let it be known: I have never actually read the Harry Potter Books or seen the films.

**Author's Note:**

> Original Posting Date: June 20, 2016
> 
> Prompt: N/A
> 
> Word Count: 1194
> 
> Note: This was an experiment. One that I believe came up just a tad above awful and completely incorrect character interpretation. Nevertheless, I would like feedback on how I wrote Draco and Hermione. This idea came as I scrolled through a few Harry Potter stories here. Then, a thought hit me, "What if, Draco felt like having Hermione's hair sleek was like a catalyst for accepting change?" A silly idea, I know, and I didn't have it in me to resist the pull of writing a one-shot. As for what twist I borrowed from another fan-fic? The idea that the Ministry decided to Obliviate Muggleborns. This idea wasn't mine at all, but I found that that did suit the story.  
> ***I have the dreadful habit of writing for fandoms I know nothing about. Let it be known: I have never actually read the Harry Potter Books or seen the films.


End file.
